


in the burning fuselage of our days

by folkinround



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-19
Updated: 2014-08-19
Packaged: 2018-02-13 21:27:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2165811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/folkinround/pseuds/folkinround
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ian and Mickey hanging out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	in the burning fuselage of our days

**Author's Note:**

> Title from The Mountain Goats' Psalms 40:2.

“You’re just throwing out ammo,” Ian said to him once, sitting up after a pushup session, bringing his knees up to his chest and panting, his eyes on Mickey. “You know that, right?”

“I’m practicing,” Mickey said, not taking his eyes off his target.

Ian huffed.

“You’ve been doing the exact same shit every day we come here, Mickey,” he said calmly. “I’ve watched you, you’re _holding_ it wrong.”

There was a bang as Mickey took another shot at an empty bottle. “Shut the fuck up, Gallagher,” he said, his lips curling into a smug little smile as the glass shattered and fell down to the dirty floor. “Suck it up, bitch.”

Ian shrugged and laid back down on the dirt, starting his sit-ups.

Mickey contemplated another shot, but he felt his shoulder still hurting from the last shooting sessions he’d done. Recoil always took the worst of him, maybe he was indeed doing it wrong.

He would never admit it to Ian, though.             

He jumped to his feet and grabbed a full beer bottle, popping the cap off and sitting down close to Ian. He took a swig of it and watched the boy, counting his sit-ups silently.

“What do you even want to get into the army for?” he asked after a moment, after another drink of beer and a burp.

Ian did a few more sit-ups before replying. _Twenty-seven, twenty-eight, twenty-nine._ He scrunched up his face – _thirty_ – and then finally sat up again. He ran a hand through his face and hair, focusing his eyes on Mickey.

“I don’t know,” he shrugged. “To get out of here, mostly.”

Mickey stared at him at that, blinking and looking quickly down when he realized he’d been doing it. He scratched his lip with his thumb and shrugged one shoulder. _And where does that leave me_ , he wanted to say, but would never _ever_ admit he thought about it, let alone say it aloud.

Instead he said, “Why don’t you just enlist, then?”

Ian shrugged. “I have to be eighteen for that,” he said. “Two years left. Might as well prepare to become an officer.”

He reached out and took Mickey’s beer, taking a big gulp from it before placing it back on the floor next to him. Mickey continued to look away from Ian, and he shrugged again, with a palm up.

“That’s a pretty fucking stupid thing, anyway,” he said. “Wanting to fight for this shitty country.” He shrugged a third time, lifting his gaze slowly.

Ian had a strange look on his eyes as he met Mickey’s. An almost smile on his lips, too. He looked almost _pleased_ , as if he knew a secret Mickey wasn’t in on, and it made Mickey _nervous_. Made his stomach flip in anxiety.

“The _fuck_ you lookin’ at, Gallagher?” he snapped, never admitting the slight nervousness on his tone even to himself. He stood before he could get an answer, retrieving his beer from the floor and drinking the last half of it in a swig. He threw the bottle to the wall, glass shattering as it collided with concrete. “Fucking psycho,” he muttered, biting his lip and not daring look back at Ian, fearing he’d find that look still in his eye.


End file.
